


The Many Ways

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Missed Opportunities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 08:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20963210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: This is the story of a first kiss.





	The Many Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/gifts).

> This is for Christina. I've promised you a story for months, here it is finally.
> 
> To my readers, a new story for you.
> 
> Love,  
Pauline.

_Anyway you'll never know_

_The many ways I've tried_

_*_

_It could have happened on a monday._

John sits in his chair, contempt in his solitude, only the sound of cars passing down the street breaking the silence inside the flat. He can’t remember the last he actually enjoyed a moment of peace. Back in his old flat, all he craved was noise, any kind of sound that would explode around him and bring him back to the real world. He doesn’t want to think of the countless afternoon spent alone, waiting, for anything, anyone really. Or just, in complete honesty, someone. He would look at his front door, the window or simply behind him, waiting for him to appear out of nowhere only to grab his hand and embark him into another adventure.

And so, sitting alone in 221B Baker Street, John learns to love silence all over again.

The door downstairs opens and closes, and John smiles. Just the smallest of twist on his lips. The familiar sound of footsteps in the stairs quickens just a little his breathing, and his heart misses a bit when the kitchen door flies open. Sherlock doesn’t say a word, moving around the kitchen in a frenzy John knows all too well. So he listens, suddenly remembering why he loves silences here so much. They never last long, are always followed by bangs or glass breaking or voices rising. John closes his eyes and lets warms feelings flow.

“John, where are my notebooks?”

“Which ones?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, not just yet.

“Purple, blue, yellow, who cares!”

“Sofa?”

More movements, much closer now. Sherlock whispers to himself, having probably found what he’s looking for. John doesn’t recall any case, but surely Lestrade called with something new. He just needs to let Sherlock work it out a little first and then he’ll ask.

“Are you ill?”

John looks back at him, finding Sherlock hovering over him.

“Resting,” he replies, soft.

Sherlock frowns at him, concerned for a instant. He leans closer, almost close enough for a kiss, John’s mind supplies.

“New case,” Sherlock finally says.

“Tell me all about it,” John replies, still smiling.

_*_

_It could have happened somewhere around March._

Three whole months. That’s how long John had been back and yet, Sherlock would argue it had already been three years. Strange, how time seems to fly by when all is _good_. The agonizing months he spent living alone when John still lived in his old flat had seemed endless, the thought of storming in and all but kidnap the man had crossed Sherlock’s mind more than a couple of times. But in the end, John had simple moved back, bringing back with him old jumper, soft smiles and a brand new list of possibilities.

Sherlock had caught signs, here and there, small and almost too quick, but there. For three whole months, Sherlock had been wondering and it is slowly driving him mad. Right now, for example. John is making breakfast when it’s already ten to noon, despite the fact that Sherlock stated, rather loudly, that he wasn’t hungry, and Sherlock can’t seem to be able to focus on anything else but John’s hip slowly moving to the music. He can’t remember when he turned on the radio for that matter, but it seems like a very good idea in this instant. Sherlock sighs, head falling in his hands. March 23rd already and he hasn’t made any kind of progress.

Twenty-three days past and gone since he swore to himself he would find a way to kiss John before the month was over. He had had countless opportunities, each of them ending in complete failure for the same reason over and over again. Who would have thought courage came in such different forms?

“Sure you don’t want anything?” John calls from the kitchen.

Sherlock looks back at him, “Not hungry.”

John doesn’t reply, doesn’t even turn to look at him. Sherlock curses at himself. He won’t get any closer to kissing the man if he talks to him this way.

“What are you making?” He tries then, making his voice as soft as he can.

“What happened to not hungry?” John asks and Sherlock doesn’t need him to turn around the guess the smile on his lips.

“That was seconds ago, John, do keep up.”

John chuckles, actually turning around this time. Sherlock makes sure to keep breathing.

“Omelette,” John says, a way too broad smile on his lips. “Potatoes, ham, cheese and pepper. So, hungry?”

Sherlock nods once, eyes following John’s tongue as it wets his lower lips.

“Set the table then, will you?”

Sherlock takes a second or two before moving to join him. Eight more days in March.

_*_

_It could have happened in a dream._

_Sherlock lets John push the door open, following him without a sound. He can’t recall how they get here, or what triggered this chain of events, but he finds that he does not care. John is holding his hand, leading them to his bed. Sherlock can’t take his eyes off him. They don’t speak a word, barely breathing really, as John slowly undresses them both. Sherlock looks and looks again, eyes roaming all over John’s now naked body. He craves to touch and suddenly his hands are following his eyes, discovering every curve. _

_“You are so beautiful.”_

_“I want you, Sherlock.”_

_“Come here, closer.”_

_“I love you, so much.”_

_He shivers when John’s own hands come to life too, soft caresses of his skin. He closes his eyes only to open them back immediately. He can’t miss any of it. So he watches, breath coming short and his entire body reacting to John’s finger sliding on his waist, hips and arse. They find themselves in bed suddenly and Sherlock realises he is dreaming, all the weirdness of the moment increasing but he fights the sudden urge to wake up. This is good, even if it has to remain unreal, and so he stays._

_“I love you,” John keeps chanting softly. _

_He lets John’s mouth discover the rest of his body, lets him kiss away the strangeness of it all. He closes his eyes this time, hands tightening around the sheets as John finds the epicenter of his pleasure. He pants and cries out and calls John’s name, seaking for more, wishing it would never end. But John is suddenly back next to him and Sherlock’s hand in around him. He watches in awe John’s face filled with pleasure, mouth hanging open in an endless breath, muscle contracting with every slide of Sherlock’s hand._

_“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.”_

_It ends, entirely outside of Sherlock’s control. He can feel John’s body pressed against his back. The frustration of not having seen John reaching his climax is heavy in his chest and when he finds himself closing his eyes, Sherlock realises they haven’t kissed a single time._

Sherlock wakes up with the ghost of John’s compact body around him. He doesn’t let go of the dream yet, wondering how exactly he could go back and fix it.

_*_

_It could have happened at Greg’s birthday._

The music is much too loud but John doesn’t mind. He had been dancing with a few lieutenants for most of the evening, enjoying the moment much more than he would have thought in the first place. Greg’s party was a well success considering even Sherlock seems to be having a good time. John had made sure to glance at him regularly while dancing, their eyes meeting for long seconds before breaking away. The thrill had never been more exciting.

It was only a matter of days, hours even now.

John can feel it building, low in his abdomen, warm and dangerous. With every movements, every glances, it keeps on growing, taking all of his breath away. The fact that Sherlock isn’t even trying to hide it makes the whole dance more and more thrilling. Anyone watching them would know, without a single doubt, what is happening. Actually, John is pretty sure Greg got the message already, considering his wink earlier and the discret thumb up. John had laughed, shaking his head but actually finding it harder to breathe properly.

The song ends, John catching Sherlock’s eyes once again. One more and he’ll go to him, he thinks, heartbeat fastening.

“Alright everyone, attention please!”

John’s head snaps to Greg at the end of the room, a glass in end.

“Time for a speech it seems!”

John looks back to his right but Sherlock is gone.

“Thank you to everyone for coming, fucking fifty years, who would have thought I’d still be here.”

People laugh but John is too busy looking around.

“I am sure glad you all came to celebrate with me, even if I piss most of you off at the Yard.”

John begins to worry, moving around the few people actually listening. He heads for the bar first, looking for a better spot to the whole room. He searches for a long moment, studying every corner while trying not to worry yet. But when he both checks the restroom and the terrasse, worries force its way inside. He reaches for his phone, already mentally going through all the possible scenario. He finds himself sighing in relief when he sees an unread text from Sherlock, hurrying up to open it.

“_Possible new case, meet me at 234 London road. SH”_

A bright laugh escapes him, and without a second of hesitation, John grabs his coat and leaves.

*

_It could have happened yesterday._

“A whole week to solve this mess,” Greg sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I guess I forgive you for sneaking out of my party.”

“Trust me,” John replies, barely standing on his feet, “I had no idea.”

“Is he alright?” Greg asks, nodding toward Sherlock.

“Yes, thank God,” John says, looking over at Sherlock with the paramedic. “It was close this time.”

“This time?” Greg says, rising an eyebrow.

John doesn’t reply, not certain he wants to recall all the times he almost lost Sherlock to a case.

“You should go before he starts pissing off the paramedics, soon no one is going to want to take care of him if he’s hurt.”

“I’ll do it,” John replies.

“That I have no doubt of,” Greg replies with a wink.

John rolls his eyes, remembering a very similar gesture from Greg at his birthday. It had all seemed very close then, the promise of more hanging in the air, and now a whole week had passed, filled with chases and arguing and criminals trying to take both of their life. John is afraid this could mean they’ve missed their chance, that it is going to take another month, or two to get there. He doesn’t want to wait this long again, doesn’t want to pretend they weren’t going to kiss at that party.

“Go to him, John.”

And so John does, Sherlock’s eyes meeting his midway. He tries a small smile, silently telling this beautiful man that he doesn’t meant all that he said this week, that it was the fatigue and stress talking, and that he’s forgiving him for all his harsh words too. Sherlock smiles back, almost insecure, but John reads it all there too. The apologies, the doubts and promises.

“Let’s go?”

He says when he’s close enough.

“Please,” Sherlock replies.

And so, deciding without a word that _this_ can only happened in the privacy of their home, they go.

*

It is happening now.

John’s hand on Sherlock’s nape, fingers playing with his hair.

Sherlock’s hand crisped around John’s shirt, shaking with anticipation.

They aren’t talking, not quite breathing either.

John’s lips stretches into a smile.

Sherlock marvels at the thought that he can feel it against his own.

There isn’t any space left between them.

Sherlock initiates the first brush, unable to wait any longer.

John’s eyes flutter close, inhaling sharply.

They kiss.

It is soft and somehow fragile, barey a touch of lips.

Sherlock can’t find anything, _anything, _to compare it to.

John finds that he had been waiting a lifetime for this.

They kiss and it isn’t what they had expected.

Not quite like the dreams, nor the fantasies.

So much more.


End file.
